Saturday morning found Jane in the rear of the Khans’ Land Rover, her hip pressed against Aunt Ilma’s warm thigh. The old lady squinted as she scrolled through Facebook pictures of relatives. Awad, sitting next to Auntie, chatted with Uncle Gafar, who sprawled in the front. Mahsood drove, his left hand on the steering wheel and his right resting on the gearshift.
Jane propped up her chin with her hand and stared out the window. She hadn’t had to share a vehicle with such a crowd since the days of club hopping in college—a miserable and suffocating experience. But, for a chance to hang out with her husband, she’d bear the inconvenience. She exhaled, squeezed her elbows against her torso, and clasped her palms. No way she could make herself any smaller. 62Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwakLnM189O
Their car zoomed past multimillion-dollar mansions in the Khans’ subdivision. Reaching a cross street, it rolled through a stop sign and entered the intersection.
A blue truck popped up from the right, heading for the Land Rover’s passenger side.
“God!” Jane clutched the handle above.
They veered left, and her body slammed into the door. Aunt Ilma’s full weight crashed into her other side.
Jane gasped for air.
The pickup swerved, coming in front of them. The tires screeched, and the Land Rover halted inches from the truck.
Jane exhaled. That was close. A dull pain throbbed in her shoulder.
“Sorry, beti.” Aunt Ilma straightened and grasped for her phone.
Uncle Gafar turned to them. “Everyone okay?”
“Yeah.” Jane felt her sore bicep. A bruise would crop up tomorrow.
Awad responded in Urdu.
The nineties-model Ford they’d almost hit reversed and freed the road before them. The Land Rover pulled around, and the pickup’s rusty cargo bed chugged past her, followed by its cab with chipped-off cerulean paint, greyish-brown spots, and heavily-tinted windows.
Definitely not a local resident. In Khans’ posh neighborhood, even domestic workers owned better-looking means of transportation. And this amount of tint was sure to be illegal. Burglars checking out their next target? Jane snickered. Her imagination was running wild. In this quarter, each house had a sophisticated security system—not a match for petty criminals and their get-away clunkers.
They exited the subdivision and wheeled down a freeway hemmed by green shrubbery, billboards, and low-rise buildings holding restaurants and retail establishments. When they arrived at the halal market’s plaza, it teemed with scurrying shoppers and tightly-parked cars.
Awad climbed out first and offered his arm to Aunt Ilma. The old lady grunted as she stepped onto the red-hot asphalt.
Jane jumped down after her and swept up the sleeves of her Nike sweatshirt. She’d covered up in order to avoid judgy stares. Sweating to death would be the price.
Awad handed Aunt Ilma over to Uncle Gafar and strode off to the cart stand. The elderly couple trudged to the entrance. Mahsood and Jane walked behind them.
The passersby gawked at them—some squinted and others smirked. Their grocery-filled carts rattled, and the children inside either whined or blasted cartoons. Most men wore long tunics and wide pants, and females sported outfits from simple silk headscarves to full hijabs. A group of teenagers in shorts and T-shirts dragged their flip-flop-clad feet to the adjacent English school.
Her husband fit in with the crowd—a perfectly-ironed silvery tunic fell down to his knees and the hems of his matching trousers brushed against his pointy shoes with slightly curled-up toes. His eyes hid behind obviously-expensive sunglass. His chin raised, Mahsood proceeded with measured steps.
Jane wiped her palms on her worn-out ripped jeans and beheld her once-white sneakers. Hmm…the two of them must’ve appeared an odd pair.
They entered the market, and Aunt Ilma plodded toward the grocery aisles. Awad pushed the buggy at her heels, while Uncle Gafar veered to the counter offering newspapers and money transfer services.
“Follow your aunt, angel.” Mahsood walked off and caught up with Uncle.
Jane blinked. He wasn’t going with her? He was the one who’d wanted to shop together.
“Excuse us,” a woman’s voice called behind her.
“My bad.” Jane moved aside letting through parents with their youngster, then looked around. 62Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTRT3V7XBpW
Aunt Ilma and Awad approached a refrigerator in the meat section.
She hastened to them and halted next to the old lady. “Aunt Ilma, Mahsood asked me to learn from you.”
“Oh yes, beti.” Aunt looked away from the chunks of animal flesh. “I think it be interesting. I always wished for girl and to give her my wisdom.” She smiled, her gaze trailing to Awad. “But Allah didn’t bless me. Not even with daughter-in-law.” The corners of her mouth drooped.
Jane bit her lip. Aunt Ilma had to have lost sleep over her son’s divorce. Mom would fret each time she’d broken up with a boyfriend.
Aunt Ilma opened the fridge releasing a whiff of coolness. She took out a weighty piece of beef wrapped in plastic. “Undercut is nice, good for frying.” She handed it to Awad and reached for a parcel of chopped-up chunks. “But for kebabs, gol boti is best. And for biryani is biryani cut.”
How complicated. Jane rubbed her cheek as she studied the bloody packages. She’d never given much thought to the cuts displayed in a meat aisle. On most days, she marched past them into the frozen foods section. She knew that ribeye or sirloin were safe choices on a steakhouse menu, and as for the rest of the dishes, she trusted the chef, whoever that was. Now, she might be the person in front of the stove.
Aunt Ilma strolled forward, grabbed some chicken thighs and lamb chops, and stopped by the bags with rice.
“That one.” She pointed to a hefty sac made of coarse brown fabric.
Awad picked it up and dumped it beside their other purchases.
Aunt Ilma untied the string and dug her fingers into the grains. She scooped out a handful, rubbed it in her fingers, brought it to her nose, and inhaled the scent.
“Mmm...” A smile slipped across her face as she raised her eyes to the ceiling. “We change, come here, go there, age, die, but Basmati stays same.” She opened her fist and extended it toward Jane. “Look, beti. Real Basmati has shape of daggers and tastes sweet. You need to keep it for year or better for ten. The longer you wait, the more flavor.”
Jane gaped. Aunt Ilma described rice as if it had been an expensive and rare commodity.
“Basmati fed people for three thousand years, and the Khans—for as long as family record goes.” She brushed off the grains into the bag and tied it. “After I wedded, ami jee taught me recipes that Khan women cook. Now, I teach you. Later, you teach your daughters.” Her intonation softened. “Only you can pass them on. Awad wants no new wife, and I may not live until the boys marry. So, you must learn, beti.”
Jane swallowed a lump in her throat. Generations of women had married into the Khans, cared for their men, birthed children, observed traditions, and prepared meals. And she stood to inherit their legacy.
“The Khans’ heritage is important to you,” Jane said. 62Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjejnWL0pNQ
Aunt Ilma grinned. “And to you, it will be.”
Jane’s heart fluttered. She was no different from the rest of the Khan brides. Auntie treated her like she belonged. With small steps, she shadowed the old lady to pickled vegetables and produce.
Loaded with eggplants and okra, pomegranates and dates, they grabbed a jar of coriander and a box of black currant tea, and steered to the check-out.
Mahsood and Uncle Gafar stood near a stand with greeting cards and chatted with a middle-aged man and a lad. Uncle Gafar gesticulated and spoke in a loud tone. Mahsood tilted his head, his mouth remaining shut.
Jane sighed as she unloaded the items onto the conveyor belt. Did she expect he would chase after her through the mart and share her fascination with the family recipes? He probably didn’t suspect they existed. She was dumb to expect anything out of this trip. They’d spent stormy nights together, but during the day he kept his distance. And even in the heat of passion, he remained in control. Never kissed her or gave her space to explore his body. She’d attributed it to chance, but, perhaps, he didn’t desire real intimacy.
The queue moved up, and Awad stepped forward, drawing a wallet out of his pocket.
Jane faced the bearded overfriendly cashier she’d met on her prior visit.
Hassan’s lips extended, showing off his pearly whites. “Darling!” His barking voice resounded through the supermarket. “You here again.”
She backed off, her gaze darting to her husband.
Mahsood’s focus stayed with the conversing gentlemen.
Hassan stretched out his oversized paw and held it in front of her.
Jane tightened her fist. Ignoring him would be impolite. She inched her fingers up.
A steellike clasp snapped around her wrist, jerking it down.
“Oh,” she stumbled sideways.
“We’re leaving.” Mahsood towered over her, his black irises flashing at the cashier. His jaw clenched, he pivoted and stormed toward the exit.
Her arm clenched in his grasp, she trotted after him. “What just happened?”
Mahsood kept his course. The store’s automatic doors swooshed open before them.
Uncle, Aunt, and Awad lingered at the register.
Her husband’s back meandered in front of her. His shoulders shifted with his large strides. The tapered hair on the rear of his head merged into the prickly fuzziness near the nape of his neck. The subtle, familiar scent of vanilla hung about him.
“Hey…can you explain?” With her free hand, she tugged at his sleeve.
He drew her forward and swung the car door ajar. “Get in.” His palm pressed down on her crown.
Jane scrambled in, and the door slammed shut at her rear.
Mahsood circled the vehicle and occupied the driver’s seat.
What devil got into him again? This guy didn’t bother explaining himself. 62Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqbvUKeHQNv
“Are you angry because I greeted the clerk?” As ridiculous as her words sounded, she had no other conjectures.
Mahsood snorted.
“That was it then.”
“You were going to touch him.”
“Just a handshake, and he initiated it.” Seriously…the prudishness… They lived in the twenty-first century, not the Victorian era.
“He wouldn’t have dared…unless you provoked him.”
She did. Kind of. On her last visit. But no way she’d admit to it. Besides, she hadn’t done anything wrong. Mahsood was jumping to conclusions and treating her like a promiscuous libertine. Jane frowned.
“So, I can't shake hands with people?”
“You can't touch men.”
She huffed. How absurd.
The trunk clicked open, and Khans’ chatter invaded the car. Aunt Ilma got in alongside Jane, and Uncle Gafar settled in his place. Awad was unloading the purchases. Mahsood climbed out and joined his cousin. The two of them lifted and tucked away boxes and bags.
Uncle Gafar buckled his seatbelt. “Do not worry about Hassan,” he spoke. “I told him that you our nephew’s wife. He will not approach you again.“
Jane shrugged. Hassan did nothing wrong. Technically. But yes…she’d prefer to avoid contact with him.
“Thank you,” she said. At least Uncle didn’t blame her for the situation. Hassan must’ve broken a cultural rule, and she was too clueless to catch on.
“Of course. We are family.” He lifted his chin. “Forget all the bad, and we go home. We stop at office if you don’t mind. Have to retrieve some papers.”
Jane nodded.
They drove back in silence. Aunt Ilma dozed off. Awad and Uncle Gafar poked at their phones, and Mahsood sat upright, his mouth tightened into a thin line.
He was upset. Jane winced. And he hadn’t intended to spend time with her. Then why had he initiated this grocery expedition? Her husband's mind operated in ways she failed to understand. He’d shuffled her off to Aunt Ilma and urged her to participate in the household. He must’ve intended to be with her for a while, but why not get to know each other? Or, perhaps, that was how marriages worked in his culture…or in any culture. She wouldn’t know. During her childhood, she’d had friends who lived with both parents. At their birthday parties, dads grilled by the pool, and moms cut ice cream cake, both fussed over grades and showed up for graduations, but beyond that, marital life was a mystery to her.
Uncle Gafar’s gas station emerged amid a cluster of fast food restaurants, and Mahsood pulled onto the cracked and patched-up parking lot. The Land Rover bumped over potholes and stopped at the poky store that held Uncle’s office.
Compared to the newly-built corporate gas stations, Uncle Gafar’s appeared dull and outdated, but, its location at the intersection of freeways, surely, made it profitable.
Mahsood jumped down and headed for the building. He returned a few minutes later, carrying a folder and a pack of letters. He passed those to Uncle Gafar and started the engine.
Uncle Gafar rustled the envelopes, opened them, and fell silent for a moment before erupting into a tirade in Urdu.
Mahsood glanced away from the road. Awad responded, speaking at a slower tempo.
Uncle Gafar rumbled on.
Jane sat up and stole a glimpse over his shoulder.
The fine print blurred, but the logo in the corner of the page was well-known to her—an eagle overlooking the scales of justice. The olive branch in the background symbolized peace and reconciliation—that is when the individual had paid his dues. No wonder Uncle Gafar had thrown a hissy. The IRS rarely wrote with good news. 62Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0A8PStTI1J
